


Prisoner of War

by TheLadyRebel



Category: League of Legends
Genre: F/M, Fanfiction, League of Legends - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-19
Updated: 2019-01-24
Packaged: 2019-09-23 00:54:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17070428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLadyRebel/pseuds/TheLadyRebel
Summary: Quinn makes a near fatal mistake whilst out on a scouting mission and ends up a prisoner of war because of it.





	1. Trapped

After tireless days of tracking, I’d finally found my mark, but a single mistake had led to my being discovered. Standing before me now was none other than Darius, the Hand of Noxus- a symbol of true Noxian might and cruelty; and as he raised his wicked ax high above me I knew I'd miscalculated my strategy. I believed I could handle myself if it came to this, but my own arrogance only served to ruin me in the end; and so, I closed my eyes, ready to accept the fate that awaited me…

-

I awoke with a start, a sharp pain nagging at my temple, and glanced about myself in a panic. I was no longer deep in the brush of the forest facing down my enemy, but sitting alone on the cool, hard ground inside of a rather large tent; complete with a sizable cot, desk, and a grand war table atop which lay a map of what I could only assume was Runeterra. I tried to rise, to move my arms and stand up so that I could better survey my surroundings, but I soon realized that my wrists were bound tightly to a sturdy wooden post in the center of the tent and that no amount of struggling would free me. 

Where was I? 

Better yet, how did I get here?

“Hello…?” I called out hesitantly, wincing at the throbbing ache in my head, though the only answer I received was the sound of armored soldiers milling about in all directions outside. It was then that I realized where I was: smack in the middle of a Noxian encampment, likely bound and imprisoned in the tent of the man who I thought had killed me.

What could Darius have possibly wanted me alive for? I endeavored to find out.

Soon enough, the devil himself pushed open one of the tent's canvas flaps and greeted me with an imposing glare. He strode toward the war table, never taking his eyes off of me, and leaned against its sturdy surface.

“I spared you only for your knowledge,” Darius spoke, voice hard and sure. It shook me to the very core. “you will tell me all that you know of Demacia's army and their plans for the war. It’s within your best interest to cooperate.”

He was daft if he thought I'd reveal anything of the sort; especially to him, but I couldn't help but feel a twinge of fear as he issued this command; however, cowardice never suited me so I straightened and hardened my expression.

“Why,” I shot back, scowling up at him in defiance, “so that more innocent lives can be lost in your lust for bloodshed?”

Darius was silent for a long while and his eyes never left my own. Was he not expecting my resistance? Surely he knew I wouldn't break, not so easy. He frowned, regarding me with all the calm and curiosity of a predator. It was as if he was considering the benefit of suffocating me then and there, though from the way he shifted slightly I could see that a part of him had other plans for me.

“Quinn, was it?” He asked after a moment, seemingly unperturbed by my earlier remark. He then pushed himself away from the table’s edge and approached me, crouching to match my height; although, even now the man towered over me and his closeness caused me to prickle uncomfortably, hairs rising to attention at the nape of my neck.

“You're nothing but a warmongering coward,” I growled, spitting into his face as he hunkered before me. 

I swear could see the barest hint of fury in his gaze before he lashed out, harshly gripping me by the chin, and coolly replied, “I am not opposed to striking a woman; soldier or otherwise.” 

A threat, though hardly an empty one. 

Darius then rose, wordlessly wiping away at the fresh moisture upon his cheek, and strode out of the tent. I don’t know how long I stared after him, waiting for him to come back, but exhaustion from the day’s hunt soon began to take hold and I drifted off to sleep before he returned...


	2. Know Your Enemy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quinn and Darius argue fruitlessly about war.

The next few days were similar to that night: I'd press Darius daily, when he returned to the tent to question me, testing his limits. I wanted to see just how far I could push him until his anger took hold, but Darius stood firm, merely meeting my insults with unimpassioned silence and the occasional roll of his eyes. He was patient and cared not for my hatred toward him nor did he bother wasting his time with me when I greeted him with such malice, and soon I grew bored of my own game. 

If he would not bristle I would have to try something different. So, I began to give him snippets of my knowledge when we spoke, small pieces here and there that held some truths but were of little importance. At first, he didn't catch on to my ruse, but the more we talked the more doubtful I sensed he became and the more closed off he was to me. 

In the early days of my captivity, I had learned quite a bit about Darius: how he’d joined the Noxian army, some of his likes and dislikes- minor things I’d managed to pick up throughout our conversations. I’d even held onto the hope that he might find it in his heart to release me someday, but the very moment he caught onto my lies I was sure that I wouldn’t walk out of this camp alive.

-

“What do you hope to gain from lying to me?” he asked me one day, lowering himself down onto one of the sturdy chairs beside the war table. 

Did I actually have a plan, or was I simply trying to prolong the inevitability of my own death? I had to think very hard about my answer. Darius knew I wouldn’t spill Demacia’s secrets to him, but every day he pushed for me to do so- like he expected me to change my mind and tell him everything. Did he truly doubt my loyalty to my country? I decided it best to be forward with him.

“I’m...pressing for time,” I said finally, closing my eyes and leaning back against the wooden post that helped to restrain me. I was tired and sore and sick of this godforsaken tent, and I knew that dishonesty wouldn’t serve to help me any longer, “because I’m afraid to die.”

Darius was careful with his reply as if he was searching for the right thing to say. I had a feeling that he was the sort of man who always had a plan brewing and was doing his utmost to stay one step ahead of everyone else. I admired that about him, (although I loathe to admit it) but he didn’t seem to expect my answer. Had I somehow managed to catch him off guard?

“Death is the only certainty in life,” he said solemnly, “it’s foolish to fear something you cannot control.” 

Wise words from a man I’d thought incapable of sincerity. Was he trying to comfort me? It was difficult to tell, based solely on his tone, but I dared to open my eyes and examine his expression. In his gaze, I saw something I hadn’t yet seen during my imprisonment: solidarity. It was as if he knew how I felt- as if he’d once felt the very same. 

Could it be that this man who’d once been introduced to me as a savage militarist was just as human as I?

No. I couldn’t possibly have anything in common with this monster. He cared for nothing but himself. He brought low many a Demacian soldier in his endless conquest for power, and it was likely that he’d killed countless women and children as well. 

Darius did not fear the end because he was its master; because he wrought death upon the innocent as he saw fit.

I opened my mouth to retaliate, but Darius lifted a single gloved hand to silence me. His demeanor had shifted somewhat during our conversation and as I glowered up at him, ready to shout out my protests, I could practically see the gears turning about in his mind.

“I have no plans to kill you,” he stated plainly, “but I can’t say I’m surprised you think otherwise. Demacians always take their assumptions very seriously.” 

“It’s difficult not to make such assumptions about you,” I shot back, “considering the type of man you are.”

Darius sighed and rose from his chair to approach me. He then crouched down before me, just as he had done on the day of my capture, and raised a single brow while he regarded me curiously.

“What else have they told you of me?” He asked then, a sneer taking his lips. “That I’ve felled hundreds, if not thousands of soldiers in my wake? That I show no mercy to those foolish enough to challenge me? That I slaughter the innocent without hesitation?”

With each word he spoke he became more rigid, the muscles in his shoulders tensing visibly, and I could tell this was a touchy subject for him. Did he not approve of the stories told about him? 

That was a strange thought.

“All Demacian soldiers are taught to fear you,” I said, “or at the very least to be cautious of you and, from what I’ve seen, I don’t blame them for heeding those warnings.”

While it was true that Darius had been relatively nice to me during my imprisonment, he had also been rather brutish and stubborn, too, and that made it difficult to speak with him. Not to mention the fact that he was my enemy. All of this coupled with his nationality made it very hard for me to sympathize with him at this moment.

“I’ve seen it for myself,” I continued, maintaining eye contact although his eyes glared like daggers into me, “you kill and you kill and you show no remorse. Even if I hadn’t heard the rumors, I would’ve formed my own opinion based on what I saw with my own eyes.”

“War breeds death, Quinn. That's why it's called war,” he replied simply, “and I'm hardly the first man to kill another in war. Regardless, I fight for a cause more just than any Demacian does.”

“What cause could be more just than serving my king?” I growled. Darius thought himself better than me, that much was clear. “I've worked my ass off since I was a child so that I could represent my king and my country. I assure you, there's no greater honor than that.”

“I fight for my people,” he retorted, “for their freedom and their livelihood, not for some pawn seated on a throne, tucked away in his palace like the coward he is.”

“Jarvan III is not a coward,” I snarled, struggling against my bindings. I refused to sit idly by while he insulted my king with such apathy, “he is a brave man, a strong man, who fights alongside his soldiers as any good king does.”

At that, Darius let out an amused laugh. It was insulting, really. He sat before me, openly mocking my country and my beliefs, and there wasn’t a damned thing I could do about it.

“Jarvan never sets foot on the battlefield without a ring of bodyguards surrounding him at all times,” Darius said, “and if it were up to him, you’d never have joined the army in the first place. From what you’ve told me you barely got into the military, as it was, isn’t that right?”

“My skill was enough to get me in without issue,” I growled in response.

“But your attitude and your distaste for higher ranking officers put you in a bad spot,” he interrupted.

“Someone vouched for me,” I said, frowning, “and her word was final.”

“Your commitment would have earned you a well-deserved place in Noxus’ army,” Darius said frankly, “and no high-born woman would have needed to have a say.”

“Noxus is a toxic, horrible place,” I began, but once again he raised his hand to cut me off.

“Noxus and its military accept those with the will to fight for their own freedoms, whereas only those born into wealthy families have their way in Demacia. You know the latter to be true, Quinn.”

I hated to agree, but the man’s words couldn’t have been truer. 

I decided it best to halt our conversation after that, keeping mostly to myself while he bustled about his tent for the duration of the night, but I couldn’t help but be plagued by the thought that he’d had some very valid points. 

What if Noxus was a better place after all?

I shook my head, leaning back against the post, and closed my eyes.

It was all nonsense...


	3. A Gentle Giant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quinn starts to sympathize with her captor in a way that's confusing to her (and relatively annoying).

The days following the argument were permeated by uncomfortable silences and stolen glances. It was difficult, speaking to Darius after he'd disrespected my personal standings, but I was stuck in his tent for who knew how long, so I tried to make the best of things. We may not have spoken much after our bout, but Darius was decent enough to keep me well-fed and hydrated; though he never untied my bindings. 

Rather, he brought me water and spoon-fed me; taking full responsibility for my care during my capture. It was odd, to be frank, the way he provided for me while I was in his charge- something I'd never expected of the militant commander, and although he'd been diligent in making sure I was sated in terms of hunger and thirst, I wasn't able to bring myself to thank him. I was prideful, grimacing each time he entered the tent with a tray full of rations for me. It was embarrassing to be fed by someone other than myself, especially since that very someone was the Hand of Noxus. 

"Just untie me," I demanded during one particularly frustrating meal in which he'd tried to feed me a bowl of warm broth and spilled some of its contents onto my chin, "I can feed myself. I'm a grown woman."

Not only had I grown tired of Darius' tending to me, but my body ached. I'd sat in the same position for nearly a month, rising only to occasionally stretch my legs and relieve myself when I was escorted towards the edge of camp, and the muscles in my arms and shoulders burned and throbbed from lack of movement.

"The last time I untied you," Darius began, setting the bowl aside and rising from his place before me, "you pulled a knife from my belt and tried to cut my throat. Why should I believe you won't try that again?"

He had a fair point.

During one short trip to the outskirts of the encampment, I'd asked Darius to cut my bindings and give me some privacy. The moment he turned his back on me I snatched a particularly nasty-looking dagger from his belt and... well...

"I'm tired," I told him with a groan, "and I'm hungry and my arms hurt."

I gave him the most innocent look I could muster, hoping that my honesty wouldn't be overlooked. Truly, I had no plans to harm the man. Not now. All I wanted was to finish my food and get some rest. Surely he understood that?

Darius leveled me with a stern look, examining my features carefully to ensure I wasn't being deceitful. I could tell that he desperately wanted to trust me.

"Alright, fine." The man gave a defeated sigh, moving toward the wooden post behind me and kneeling down. I couldn't see him, but it sounded like he'd grabbed that dagger from his belt. I felt him grasp at the thick rope that bound my wrists and slowly saw into it with his knife until it gave way and my hands were free.

Slowly, as not to alarm Darius, I pulled my hands away and held them before me, rubbing tentatively at my wrists. They were raw and bruised due to many hours of struggling against the ropes.

"Thank you..." I managed, for once. 

When he stepped out from behind me the expression he held was one of apprehension. He was cautious, watching me closely even as he backed away and sat down on his cot to finish his own meal.

"Don't try anything stupid," he said.

"I won't," I replied, reaching for my bowl of broth and bringing it to my lips so that I could take a steady sip. Its warmth was far more than pleasant, although it was rather tasteless. Regardless, it was the best meal I'd had all month and it didn't serve me well to complain. 

As soon as I'd finished my broth I set the bowl down onto the tray beside me and snatched up a small portion of bread from it. While it felt nice to finally have control over my own hands again, it was difficult for me to move them. I was stiff, extremely so, and one of my hands cramped just as I lifted the loaf to take a bite.

"Damnit!" I cried out, losing my grip on the bread and letting it tumble to the ground. I immediately set to massaging the cramp away with my other hand, but it was no use. I was weak and frail from being confined for so long and I merely hurt myself even more so in my attempt to soothe my pain. 

Wordlessly, Darius rose and approached me, crouching down and taking my hand into his own. He began to knead against my palm with his thumbs, working the knot away as best as he could. Within minutes the twinge of pain was gone and I was relieved.

I opened my mouth to thank him once more (funny, how I'd objected to the thought before, but could hardly help myself from thanking him now) but Darius merely picked up the fallen loaf, dusted it off, and handed it back to me. He still held my hand in one of his own, and upon that realization I felt a bit of heat rise to my cheeks, causing me to glance downward.

After all this time I'd never noticed how rough and calloused his hands were- the hands of a soldier, no doubt, and I found myself ignoring the offered loaf to further examine him. There were scars, small ones, that flecked the center of his palm and his knuckles. Larger, deeper gashes marred his fingers. I wondered how badly the rest of him had been blemished by war...

"Quinn," I heard him say, refocusing me, and he nudged the portion of bread toward me once more.

I pursed my lips, taking it from him quickly and releasing my grip on his hand. 

"Sorry..." I said sheepishly. 

Darius gave me an affirmative nod and stood, moving toward his cot. He bent down and collected his own tray of rations, now empty, and brought it over to the war table to set it down. I could tell that something was on his mind, but I didn't bother pressing him. 

Instead, I took a small bite of my bread and leaned back against the wooden post, stretching my legs out before me; though it was hard not to watch my captor as he loomed over the grand war table, examining various stratagems that rested upon its surface. He looked... tired- exhausted, even, and I longed to relieve him of his fatigue somehow. I frowned at the thought, finishing my small loaf and folding my arms across my chest.

This man, this warmonger, was inspiring feelings within me that I didn't dare speak of. I found myself suddenly concerned for his well-being, found myself wanting to embrace him and care for him as he had done for me.

Clearly, I needed to sleep. My mind wasn't working right and my thoughts were a jumbled mess. 

I was Darius' prisoner of war, captured only because I'd miscalculated my approach. Nothing more. It was silly of me to think he felt anything other than indifference towards me, so why shouldn't I feel the very same?

With a yawn and a brief stretch, I laid down where I sat, closing my eyes with hopes that sleep would take me soon. 

Maybe Darius wasn't so terrible after all...


End file.
